Frankie's Fault
by Joodiff
Summary: It's all Frankie's fault, but really Grace should have had more sense. Either way, the ladies of the CCU thoroughly enjoy the resulting view...


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N: **_'Tis fun and fluff. 'Tis nothing but self-indulgent fun and fluff. CatS81 recently put out a call for a new early-era WtD story, so it's sort of her fault. Although it's also the fault of _that_ scene in the S2 episode "Thin Air". Enjoy. ;)_

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**Frankie's Fault**

by Joodiff

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Given the general location, Grace was expecting something rather more salubrious than the neglected two-floored gym and sports club that's tightly sandwiched between a small independent supermarket and an ugly renovated office building. Inside and out, Casey's – who knows who on earth Casey is or was – has the hangdog look of somewhere that knows it's competing with several local bigger, brighter and better-equipped rivals. More expensive rivals, too, no doubt, and that's presumably the only reason the place keeps stumbling on instead of moving eastwards across town or disappearing altogether. It's certainly not the sort of place she would visit through choice – and not only because she's never had any interest in any kind of sport as a participation event. The place is just a bit too grim and faded for her liking, even though the clientele seems to be a solid mixture of young white collar workers and rather less athletic-looking middle management types presumably attempting to stave off early strokes and heart-attacks by at least paying lip service to some kind of physical exertion once or twice a week after work.

It's Frankie's fault the three of them are here. Frankie with a little bit of Mel thrown in for good measure. They are both still screeching like excited schoolgirls as they precede Grace up the dingy staircase that rises from the tired and cramped reception area. If nothing else, the volume and quality – never mind quantity – of the inane giggling tells her that what they are doing is A Very Bad Idea. Possibly A Very Bad Idea Indeed. It's going to be difficult to explain why she tagged along with them instead of raising mature and responsible objections to the whole ridiculous idea and refusing to have anything to do with it. Extremely difficult, in fact. Damn near impossible, she fears. Blaming Frankie won't work. She can already picture the sceptical, disapproving look on Boyd's face quite clearly.

It's not going to end well.

It'll be worth it. That's what her two younger female colleagues kept insisting throughout the short walk from the squat police building temporarily hosting the CCU while Boyd wheels and deals with DAC Christie for better, more suitable premises to house their unit. _It'll be worth it._ Famous last words. It won't be worth it, because they're going to be spotted – and quickly, too, if the incessant cackling isn't reduced to a less banshee-like level – and then there will be all sorts of hell to pay.

_I really don't know why I'm doing this, _Grace thinks as she trails after the other women. It's partly true. Less true than might be admirable, but…

"Viewing gallery," Frankie announces loudly and unnecessarily, given that she and Mel have stopped beside a large glazed door marked with exactly those words in bold block capitals. "Last chance to change your minds, girls."

It's been more than thirty years since anyone – with one notable exception – below the age of seventy dared call Grace a girl. She's not sure if she's amused or slightly offended. She's just about old enough to be the mother of both of her companions, after all. They are watching her expectantly. She takes it as a tacit challenge. "Well? What are we waiting for?"

It's such a bad idea. Really, it is.

They file through the door into the empty viewing gallery that looks down onto twin squash courts – both occupied. Two large and lumbering middle-aged men who look as if they are probably sales managers or something similar are playing a slow and uninspiring game on the first court. Lots of hitting the small fast ball very hard – with an equal amount of missed shots – but not much actual physical movement from either player. Running after the ball to hit it doesn't seem to feature in their stolid interpretation of how the game should be played. Waiting for it to come into convenient range and then aiming a hard, hopeful stroke at it seems to be their preferred style. Inevitably, their game starts and stops a lot. Ponderously.

It's the other court the trio are interested in. The one occupied by Boyd and Spencer.

If there aren't many extremely difficult questions to answer by the end of the evening, then Grace isn't an experienced criminal psychologist with a sterling professional reputation going back many years. Which she is.

"Nice shorts," Mel comments, settling herself next to the already ensconced Frankie on the lowest of the raked benches provided for spectators. It's not clear whose shorts she's referring too, but Grace's money is on Spencer Jordan's. Dark blue and visibly straining over taut buttocks. Against her better judgement she seats herself next to Mel and wonders if they look in any way like the three wise monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. She's not sure which of them is which if they do.

"You do realise," she says in a low voice, "just how much trouble we're about to find ourselves in?"

"It's worth it," Frankie asserts. She is gazing down into the court with rapt fascination. Like a keen biologist studying some rare and exotic species. Actually, more like a hungry lioness eying a particular tasty-looking wildebeest. Or two. "Oh God, it's _so_ worth it…"

A moment's mutual contemplative silence is broken by Mel's reflective, "They're very sweaty, aren't they?"

The not-quite-yet-ready-to-pounce lioness only responds, "Mmm."

Grace understands. She has a little too much decorum to comment aloud on the phenomenon, but she understands. Unlike Mel, it's not Spencer she's looking at. Where Frankie's gaze is trained is anyone's guess. Grace isn't disposed to worry about it; after all, unlike Frankie it's not the first time she's seen Boyd work up a sweat… The thought brings a slight flush to her cheeks. If Frankie or Mel notices she'll blame it on the building's lack of ventilation. Or the fading clutches of the menopause. Or something. Certainly not on the entrancing vision in her head of Boyd's slick, bare chest gleaming as he –

"Oh, good shot!" Frankie exclaims. Amazingly, neither of the men on the court seems to hear her.

"Eh?" Grace says. She almost kicks herself. She really doesn't want to have to explain why she wasn't paying attention to the game. Or to have to think up a convincing lie that doesn't incriminate anyone.

"Spencer," Mel explains in a patient tone. "He just won the point."

"Oh." It surprises her that anyone – aside from the players themselves – is at all interested in the score. Not when there's so much tantalising male flesh on show. Muscular, highly competitive male flesh. Strong thighs, powerful biceps and… _Stop it,_ she orders herself. _For heaven's sake, Grace, get a grip and try to act your age…_

"He's really making Boyd run around," Frankie comments sounding vaguely approving. She smirks. "Who's up for giving CPR if the poor old bugger keels over? Grace…?"

_Cow,_ she thinks without any real malice. _Just you wait, Doctor Wharton; just you wait. One day..._ Her reply, though, is bland. "Unlike Mel, I'm not a trained First Aider."

"Mel…?"

But Mel isn't easily entrapped. "Spence is a First Aider, too."

"Right; well, we'll just let him handle the mouth-to-mouth, then, shall we?"

"Heartless," Grace tells them both, shaking her head in mock disapproval. "Besides, think about it – if Boyd has a coronary, we'll probably all be out of a job."

"She's got a point, you know, Frankie."

Frankie shrugs. "Best change allegiance, then, and quick. Never mind, I always did have a bit of a thing for older men."

_No, really? I'd never have guessed._ Grace looks down at the court again. Unlike the game on the other court, this one seems to involve quite a lot of rapid movement. Spencer has a considerable age advantage, no denying that, but Boyd isn't the only one being made to work hard. It doesn't seem to be a foregone conclusion that Spencer's going to win. Then, she reflects, it's doubtful that Boyd would bother to take his subordinate on if he didn't know he had a fighting chance of besting him. Skill, precision and sheer bloody-minded obstinacy should never be underestimated in her humble opinion. If she knows Boyd half as well as she thinks she does, the day he thinks he can't win against Spencer will be the day he finds some excuse to terminate their semi-regular squash nights.

"Testosterone," Frankie says dreamily.

"Oh God, she's off again," Mel mutters with a telling roll of her eyes. "Frankie, we've really got to do something about getting you laid, and soon… before you start chasing after absolutely anything with a pulse and a – "

"Please," Grace interrupts. "Think of my delicate sensibilities."

"Since when were your sensibilities delicate?"

_Never._ "Since I got dragged up here and had to listen to you two going on like a couple of giggly schoolgirls."

"It's not me," Mel complains with a wave of her hand, "it's _her_. This was all Frankie's idea, remember? _'Let's sneak in and watch them play'_ she said, _'It'll be a laugh'_ she said."

"Oh, and I really had to twist your arm, didn't I, Mel?"

"Ladies," Grace says, cutting across their bickering as she notices something fundamental and important, "what's that line from that film that you're both so fond of quoting?"

"What film?" Mel asks with a frown. Grace watches as she turns her head and realises that below them all activity has ceased on the court. Two pairs of baleful dark eyes are looking up at them. Mel looks at Frankie. Frankie looks at Mel. Mel says, "Oh."

_Houston, we have a problem._

-oOo-

"I see." The mild tone of Boyd's voice doesn't fool Grace for an instant. She looks up at him trying to decide whether it's worth sacrificing her integrity in the name of peace and harmony. Playing the part of fragile and winsome female doesn't come naturally to her, but it's a tactic that works. On Boyd, it works every time. _Almost_ every time. He puts his hands on his hips which only has the startling effect of making his shoulders look even broader under his sweat-stained sports shirt. "So what you're saying is that – for you – this was _purely_ an exercise in psychological evaluation?"

"Absolutely." It's an effort to keep her expression anywhere near as deadpan as his. "The study of male hierarchical structures is – "

"So nothing at _all_ to do with you wanting to see me and Spence in our shorts?"

She feigns outrage. "Nothing at all. How could you even begin to think that? I abhor the very notion of ever objectifying anyone in that sort of way."

"You're such a bad liar, Grace."

He's amused. Thank all the powers of the universe, Boyd is amused. She can see it in his eyes, in the tell-tale twitch of a tiny muscle in his cheek. Amused and maybe even just a little bit flattered. Stroking his ego usually works to disarm him, too. Stroking other things has the same result, she's learned over the last few exciting weeks, but since they are not yet safely alone behind closed doors… She smiles. Winsomely. "It was all Frankie's idea."

"Snitch." He shakes his head. "Frankly, I'm appalled by your behaviour, Doctor Foley. Disciplinary action may be called for."

Perfect opportunity. She deliberate widens her eyes, affects an innocent look. "Discipline? In _public_, Boyd?"

The silence is short but it is absolute. Loaded with all sorts of lascivious connotations. The humour's still there, but now there's something else between them, too. The thing they don't talk about. Not ever. The thing that sometimes whispers to them in unguarded moments; the dangerous thing that occasionally dares to suggest maybe it's not simply just a bit of fun, whatever it is they have unexpectedly found together. Not just an elegant sort of unspoken understanding. The thing that sometimes seizes control of the surprising mutual attraction and attempts to twist it into something far more serious.

Boyd clears his throat, the sound loud and rough in the gloomy corridor. It breaks the spell. Point to Foley. Unquestionably. This time her smile is not winsome.

He's never slow to recover, though, and he isn't this time. "Perhaps not. Later, on the other hand…"

The words hang in the air, heavy with all sorts of meaning. The rest of the evening is suddenly full of possibilities, all of which remind Grace what it was like to be young, carefree and stupidly in love. In love? Where, she wonders, did that absurd thought come from. They may be a lot of things, but they're not in love. Definitely not. Are they?

"Boss?" Spencer's voice says, interrupting the moment. He sounds testy, very much like a man who's still failing to see the funny side of the situation. Mel and Frankie are straggling in his wake, both looking contrite in a contrived manner that suggests they are anything but. "You wanna call it quits and get out of here before these two die laughing?"

The look Boyd gives him is haughty. Magnificently so. "Quits? And who was winning, Spence?"

"You were, boss." Grudging. Very grudging.

"Oh, stop it," Grace interjects before matters escalate. "Honestly, sometimes it's like dealing with a pair of over-competitive schoolboys."

Someone – Frankie? – makes a very poor job of suppressing a snort of amusement. Boyd's glower expands to encompass all of them, but he doesn't reply. Grace thinks it's unlikely he's lost for words. Probably he's just biding his time. Retribution will come when he's good and ready and not a moment before. She will be able to circumvent the worst of it, of course, by fair means or foul, but the immediate future doesn't look good for Mel and Frankie.

"Take them away," Boyd orders her. The one recalcitrant lock of hair – now dark with sweat – that always seems to fall across his forehead somehow makes him look years younger, belying the way he growls, "And if I get into work tomorrow and find that even _one_ piece of the Debbie Britten stuff isn't ready to go to the CPS…"

His bark is worse than his bite. Usually. Grace knows it better than anyone. She's tempted to give him a conspiratorial wink, but in the end she just looks at her female colleagues and says "You heard the man. Let's go."

-oOo-

They meet where they usually meet, at the bustling bar overlooking the river close to Cadogan Pier. It's a good rendezvous point, broadly equidistant between their respective homes and only a short drive from the CCU's current headquarters. It's also busy enough to provide the kind of anonymity they both favour. Boyd stands to greet her and on impulse Grace stretches up to brush a kiss against his cheek. A quiet salute, an acknowledgement, nothing more. He smells strongly of soap and aftershave and there's a faint humidity clinging to his skin that suggests he's not long out of the shower. They finished their game, then.

"Who won?" she inquires, settling herself at the small corner table he's acquired for them. It doesn't escape her notice that there is a glass of red wine waiting for her.

A pained grimace tells her the answer even before he replies, "Spence. By a narrow margin."

It's tempting to tease him about the ever-increasing penalties of age, but Grace knows it's a bad idea. He's still just a bit too sensitive about finally being forced to relinquish his stubborn grip on his late forties. Though they both have very good reason to be grateful for the night of his delayed birthday celebrations…

Resisting both the temptation and the memories, she says, "This evening was just a bit of fun."

"You think I don't know that?" One dark eyebrow quirks at her. "Good for team morale, that sort of thing. Just tell them not to make a habit of it. Some things are… sacrosanct."

"What happens on the squash court stays on the squash court?"

"Something like that, yeah."

The temptation is too great. Grace surrenders to it. "Frankie says you've got great legs, by the way. For a man of your age."

He scowls. "Ouch, Grace."

"You want to keep an eye on that one, you know. I think she may be developing the tiniest bit of a crush on you."

Boyd's answering expression is every bit as smug as she expects. "Jealous?"

_Maybe just a little._ "No."

He grins, somehow both innocent and wicked. It does things for her, that grin. Interesting things. "Ah, Grace, you know you're the only woman in my life. Forensic scientists are two a penny, but decent offender profilers… well, they're rarer than hen's teeth."

Swallowing a mouthful of wine she says, "Remind me what it is I see in you…?"

Both eyebrows rise this time. "Here? Now?"

It's a fun game. A fun and flirtatious game. "I'm beginning to think you have a hidden exhibitionist streak, Boyd."

The answering solemnity is quite deliberate. "You bring out the worst in me. Or the best. I can't quite decide which."

"I'm not exactly sure myself," Grace admits, both wry and honest.

Boyd tilts his head. "Night-cap, my place? Breakfast?"

He has a strange sort of easy-going charm, no doubt about it. A little bold, a little diffident; contradictory, like everything else about him. She's growing increasingly fond of him. She's not sure it's wise, but she is. He seems to feel the same about her, too. It's too soon to wonder what they're really doing, where they're really going. If anywhere. It is what it is, as the saying goes. Enjoy the moment, go along for the ride and just see what happens next. Her reply comes with a casual shrug. "Maybe."

Boyd can't resist a challenge. Of course he can't. Grace often relies on it. His attention sharpens, even his posture shifts in a subtle way, becomes straighter, keener. She notices. His voice is smooth. "There's still the little matter of disciplinary action."

"Oh, I'm expecting action, Boyd," she tells him, watching the way the intent look in his dark eyes turns foxy. "We can negotiate on everything else later."

"Drink your drink," he instructs after a very long and very meaningful pause. "Just one other thing…"

"Yes?"

"Next time you want to see me in my shorts, Grace, just ask."

"To be honest," she says, draining her glass, "at the moment I'm far more interested in seeing you _without_ them."

The dangerous grin is every bit as predictable as his response. "Bad girl."

No-one under seventy ever calls her a girl nowadays. With, of course, that one notable exception. And somehow Grace rather likes it. And him.

_- the end -_


End file.
